Vagabond
by Musicnutt
Summary: "Something deep, deep down that he had buried so many years ago resurfaced with a vengace..." AU fic. A homeless teen makes a decision that changes not only his life, but the life of a little boy named Bruce. Rated T for graphic imagery.
1. Chapter 1

This is an AU fic with one of my own characters.

It's simply a 'what if' fic, so just relax and give it a chance, please?

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That night the wind howled and moaned like a malevolent ghoul, biting at the skin and seeping through the clothes of Gotham's inhabitants. Even the elites were not spared as they shivered in their thick, flannel-lined winter weather coats.

However, the true victims of this bitter autumn were Gotham City's lowest, the dregs, the homeless. Garbed in only threadbare rags and toeless, fingerless gloves and shoes, they could not spare a grain of energy to even shudder as they were assailed by the early winter sprites. Most simply froze to death in the dark, grungy crevices of Gotham's alleyways.

As the passerby shivered in their clothes, a young man, of perhaps seventeen, sat crouched in a doorway in Crime Alley. With his patchy, brown trench coat, stained white shirt, and jeans that were two sizes too big, most eyes would simply slide right off of him, if it weren't for three characteristics. He had vibrant red hair that fell messily over his forehead and collar, a ratty orange scarf draped around his pale neck, and a pair of old aviator goggles who's reflective lenses held numerous cracks hiding his mossy eyes. Usually these traits of his were distinctive enough to warrant a double-take and maybe even a stare, but today someone had placed a large, dirty, metal trash bin next to his spot. If one were to glance down the alley (only God knew the reason for such an impulse) from the street, his form was completely hidden from view. This was perfectly fine with him though, in spite of the rancid stench wafting out of the rusting bin.

This was his spot; this boarded up doorway of a condemned building. This indention in the wall was just enough to shelter him from the bite of the wind and Gotham's frequent rain. In summary, it was home. Home for a homeless person.

While most in his situation would bemoan such a dreary life, he never dwelled on the topic long. In fact, he wasn't even thinking about it now. Right now, he was huddled over a crossword that he had torn from a scavenged newspaper. In his partially gloved hand he scribbled on the paper scrap with a tiny stub of a pencil.

21. An eleven-lettered word for 'open hearted'.

"ventricular " he wrote in the tiny white squares. His eyes roved down the page.

5. Nine-lettered word for 'cosmically isolated'.

"solipsist ".

The crosswords were easy for him, but not annoyingly so. Doing things like this kept his mind occupied and sharp. If there was one thing he had learned during his time on the streets was that stupid people died. Loud people also died, but that was hardly an issue for him.

As he continued to scribble in answers, a single drop of rain fell from the gray clouds above him and splattered in the middle of the word "modification", smearing the "fic". As he lifted his head, another drop hit his goggles, slipping into one of the cracks. Giving a small sigh, he folded up the crossword and stowed it away in one of his coat's inner pockets along with the pencil stub.

He huddled deeper into his little crevice and bumped into a large case that had been propped up against the threshold of the doorway. It contained what was probably the ugliest, most worthless violin in the world.

There was no square inch of wood that was not scratched, and its E string had long been absent. The A string would soon be following. The instrument carried so much scarring on its skin that not even the most desperate thief would bother to steal it. The cost required to repair the thing simply outweighed any gain that might be wrung from it: exactly how he had planned.

The mahogany colored violin was his most prized possession, and it had broken his heart to put even a single mark on its lacquered wood. But in order to keep such a valuable treasure on the streets of Gotham, he had done what needed to be done, and painstakingly carved the each scar into his beloved friend.

Perhaps his dedication had been rewarded, because the mutilated violin still sang for him and put his troubled heart at ease. Sometimes if he was bored or had been ousted from his spot, he would make his way to Gotham Central Park and play under the statue of a man on a rearing stallion.

The thought made his fingers itch. He wanted to play. With nail-bitten fingers he unlatched the battered case and carefully lifted the disfigured instrument and its partner from the faded, red velvet lining.

Leaning his head against the violin's bosom, he struck up a slow and gentle tune as the rain began to pour around him.

That night the rain protected him, keeping those who might disturb him indoors. His only audience was an emaciated tabby as he accompanied the downpour.

For the moment, he was content. After all, nothing about his situation would change. The caste system of Gotham was set in stone.

For now, this was home.

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Please review


	2. Chapter 2

**Premonition**

For the first time in years, he dreamt about his family.

Not that anyone would have noticed. Out on the streets, drawing too much attention to yourself would get you shot. He had learned to suffer his nightmares in silence, in stillness.

So, he lay there in his little nook, as still as death, as his mind spun faster and faster, his mother's rising in pitch, the rain of rubies that spilled and splattered over the pavement like the raindrop on his crossword, the bitter smell of tobacco and gunpowder, and the stares of passerby who couldn't be bothered to raise a finger to help-CRACK!!!RUMBLE~

He jolted awake as if he had been kicked, wheezing and gasping. Cold sweat dampened his hairline fogging up his goggles, while his heart slammed a painful tattoo in his chest. After a minute or so the ringing in his ears dulled, and he managed to slow his breathing. Once the young man had regained some control over his senses, the rumble of thunder finally registered in his agitated mind.

The sky was dark with storm clouds, flashing bright violet with streaks of lightning. In the night, the rain had birthed a violent squall that had served as his orchestra before he had settled down to sleep.

His stomach, empty more often than not, told him that it was around 3 a.m.

It was early. Too early. Everything that wasn't in the red light district was closed, thus no chance of him scrounging breakfast from the more charitable shopkeepers in town. Not that his appetite was particularly strong right now.

With the chances of falling asleep not foreseeable in his near future, he hitched up his case on his shoulder and slipped away to walk off the demons snapping at his heels.

/

Wayne Manor

"Bruce, dear, it's time to go." His mother called to him from the foyer. The nine-year old heir gave an irritated sigh.

The illustrious Wayne family was going to the theatre tonight to see a new, popular play. In all honesty, Bruce didn't really want to go. Events like this tended to be really boring, and Rachel, his best friend, was out on a trip with her family.

With a sense of resignation, the boy hurried down the stairs to join his parents. As he reached the bottom, Bruce saw them standing before the two massive front doors.

His mother, Martha Wayne, was a striking brunette with warm, keen eyes. She was dressed in an immaculate blue Armani blazer and skirt. A string of cream pearls hung about her neck.

She smiled at her son, leaning forward to straighten his clothes and rub away an imaginary smudge on his cheek. Bruce heard his father chuckle as he squawked in protest under her ministrations.

Thomas Wayne, his father and idol, looked imposing in his iron gray Doir suit and long dark coat. His salt and peppered hair was combed back, giving him a dignified appearance. His normally stern grey eyes were gentle as they gazed upon his family.

Alfred Pennyworth, their loyal butler and friend stood beside his employer, prepared to bid them goodbye for the night. The Brit was easily his father's age, but had retained his dark hair making him seem younger.

"There we go; that's better." His mother said approvingly as she finally stepped back. Bruce pouted at her.

Thomas laid a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. "Is the car here, Alfred?"

"Ready and waiting, Master Wayne." The butler replied dutifully.

"Well, let's be off, then. We don't want to be late."

"Don't forget your coat, Bruce." His mother chided. He grabbed his coat as they headed out.

"Bye, Alfred!"

"Good-bye, Master Bruce. Be safe."

The air was crisp and cool as they stepped out that evening. The sun had just begun to set, casting a glowing flush over their heads, painting the clouds purple.

The Waynes entered the waiting Lamborghini and set off for the theatre in the heart of Gotham.

/

He was just returning from Gotham Central Park, having spent the day earning enough to buy him a small meal, playing his violin. He still had a couple dollars left over; carefully stowed away in the seam of his trenchcoat. Considering how his day had started out, the homeless boy's mood was much lighter.

Quietly gazing upward he admired the splashes of purple, orange, and scarlet, creating the perfect backdrop to Gotham's glittering skyline of architectural wonders. He was hardly an accomplished art critic, but, he decided, it would have probably made a nice painting.

Continuing his homeward trek, a black Lamborghini drove past his haggard frame, the slipstream sending his blood red locks askew (not that it had ever been in place to begin with). Tugging halfheartedly at his scruffy coat, the young man let his gaze follow the sleek, black vehicle, admiring its sheen, reflecting the Van Gouge worthy sunset in its tinted windows.

For a moment he allowed himself to wonder after the identity of its inhabitants, before turning down the street that would lead him back to his little nook in Crime Alley.

The people who basked in the artificial lights of Gotham could never understand or appreciate the sense of safety that the dark held for him. To him, it was home. The dark was the only place that allowed him shelter, meager as it was.

He did not love or hate the light; there was just no place for him there. With that last thought, he found himself curled up in the cold brick threshold with his back pressed snuggly against the case of his violin.

The young man settled down in the hopes of evading his demons and finding some measure of sleep tonight.

As the sun's light finally faded into shadow, he drifted off into the darkness of his own mind.

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Yeah, I know this is taking a while, but please review. It's the fuel for all writers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Savior**

He woke abruptly a few hours later with no recollection of his dream. Slightly addled by his sudden surface to consciousness, he squinted into the shadows of the alley trying to detect the cause. As he shifted into his habitual crouch, he came to the realization that he was not alone.

The sound of heavy, ragged breathing came to him from the other side of the trash bin. He immediately stilled; his breath caught in his chest. Adrenaline was flooding his system, prepping him to take flight.

Still slightly disoriented, he couldn't tell what time it was, but it was definitely late: the time when the crazies came out. He did not dare to try and investigate his new neighbor, and silently hoped that he would remain undetected.

In the apartment building opposite them, a light went on, casting an orange glow into the alley. To his luck, the light was on the other side of the bin and cast him deeper into the embrace of the dark; concealing him from even the best night eyes. His new companion, however, was now bathed in its light.

The man hissed and hurried across the alley to hide behind another bin, glancing about nervously.

In that moment, the light had set the man's features in stark relief, giving the youth a glimpse. The man was dirty, ragged, and menacing. A wild desperation had shown in the dilated pupils of his eyes. He was also sweating profusely.

Classic symptoms of a druggie: one of the most dangerous criminals out there.

The man's hands were vibrating with drugs and tension as they clutched something in his coat pocket. It was most likely a knife or gun. Maybe even a syringe. He was crouched like a cat: prepared to spring upon the unaware.

The desperate man was a mugger, trying to procure means for his next high, prepared to off anyone in his way.

The young man huddled silently in the darkness, doing his best to remain invisible to the other man's frantic gaze. Someone was definitely going to die tonight ( if the tension in the druggie's upper body was anything to go by) in Crime Alley, and he had determined that it was not going to be him.

The strap of his case cut into his shoulder as he counted the seconds, waiting for the man to either leave or find a victim. Suddenly faint voices floated to his ears from the other side of the bin again.

"Don't worry. We're just going to take a short cut." A man's voice spoke in a confident baritone.

Both of the alley men froze: one in horror, the other in anticipation.

"But Bruce is tired. Maybe we should just wait for the care." A nervous woman's voice and the soft footsteps of a third person met their ears. A family. Utterly vulnerable.

The redhead's stomach lurched as his mind painted the scene that was to follow. A scene just like this from what seemed like a thousand years ago superimposed itself over his eyes.

Suddenly the world seemed to slow, as the man leapt from his hiding place, pulling out his weapon, a gun, from his pocket. The woman screamed as the mugger waved it, demanding the pearls from around her neck.

Something inside spurred him to pear around the bin, to see the gun descend to point at the husband's heart. In the moment between the seconds, his jade green eyes caught the face of the child huddled behind his mother. The kid couldn't have been older than ten, his face white as bone, stricken with terror.

Something deep deep down, that he had buried so many years ago, resurfaced with a vengeance, pouring white hot fury into his veins.

And before he knew it, he was up, his hiding place abandoned.

His arms roped themselves around the mugger's neck and pulled back, throwing the aim of the gun off target.

BLAM!

The bullet ricocheted off a brick twenty feet up.

The woman's screams filled his ears as he wrestled the attacker deeper into the alley. Somewhere in the midst of the struggle, he heard himself shout at them to flee, to leave this godforsaken place.

Whether his order had been heeded, he did not know as his world turned into a blur of shadow and orange lights as he tumbled with the man down onto the grungy pavement.

BLAM!

Another shot was fired, making his ears ring with its proximity. A different white-hot burning blossomed in his side as he slammed his fist into the man's snarling face.

The gun went skidding across the ground.

His hair was pulled; nails bit into the flesh of his face; and in the distance, sirens wailed.

At last. Someone had called for help.

Upon hearing the sirens, his quarry wretched from his grip and fled into the depths of the alley, his weapon and prey long forgotten.

The youth struggled to regain his footing, severely disoriented until strong warm hands gripped his shoulders. Dimly, over the wailing of the sirens, he heard a comforting voice speak to him, drawing up old memories and old pains from his heart.

The flood of memories, feelings, the safety of those hands, the screaming sirens, the shouting of the police, and the oppressive pain that was building in his side finally broke him. He was overwhelmed. It was too much.

As the owner of those strong hands helped him up, the young man tore himself out of his grip and fled as well. Back into the darkness from whence he came, his mind and heart whirling, ignoring the warmth that was drenching his shirt, ignoring the weight of the case cutting into his shoulder, ignoring the voices calling him back.

Several minutes later, he collapsed in the Narrows.

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No, he's not dead. Anyway, I have effectively killed Batman.

Reviews (constructive criticism please) are welcome and wholly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hunt**

Dark clouds slowly rolled their way across the sky as Sergeant Gordon drove his vehicle through Gotham Central Park patrol route, scanning the faces of each passerby. There weren't too many people out in the park today; unless there was a special event, there never really were: a fact that would hopefully make his search a little easier.

It had been two days since the attempted murder of the Wayne family. Everywhere you looked the most interesting story in decades was shoved right in your face: "The Waynes Saved By Unlikely Hero: Suspect Still At Large". You couldn't turn on the TV without finding talkshow hosts and newscasters spinning every conspiracy story; naming suspects from anonymous callers; blaming the government, the police force, for not cleaning up Gotham's streets; basically, muddying the water. For all the media claimed to be on their side, trying to help them, they only made the job that much harder.

Gordon got a headache just thinking about it. He had managed (by the grace of God) to find the one channel that wasn't playing up the media hype. The station played old swing music, stuff his father probably listened to back in the day. It was oddly soothing.

Just about every cop in Gotham was out chasing leads, banging on doors, and being a general pain to everyone in the vicinity of the crime scene (Crime Alley, go figure). Every cop wanted to be the one to find the perp, the break in the case, and be the hero of the day; except for him. Gordon was searching for the real hero of the media frenzy who remained at large as well.

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(2 days ago, GCPD)

The entire department was in uproar over the latest incident. Cops were running around like headless chickens, trying and failing to be useful.

The Wayne family had just been put into protective custody while the crime scene was taped off to be examined. The family was shaken but miraculously unharmed; Thomas Wayne was currently in interrogation with the Commissioner giving his official statement, while his wife and child waited in another room.

Gordon, a greenhorn, stood on the sidelines watching Mrs. Wayne and her son through the madness that had gripped the station. Both were deathly pale as they sat there surrounded by officers. Mrs. Wayne looked strained, both exhaustion and nerves aged her normally vibrant features. The little boy sat on her lap, his white cherub face tucked quietly into her shoulder, small shoulders tense, hands white-knuckled in her blazer.

They had quite literally dodged a bullet tonight and were desperately trying to come to terms with their near death experience.

Grief and fury lanced through his chest on the family's behalf. No one had bothered to notice their distress or tried to comfort them in some way. All of them too busy. Busy being heroes instead of being humans.

With the first of what would be many frowns cutting into his youthful forehead, the sergeant strode off to the break room.

A couple minutes later he returned bearing two steaming, Styrofoam cups. Ignoring the raised eyebrows of his older colleagues, Gordon approached the pair with his offering.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Wayne." His voice soft but clear. No doubt she was tired of all the shouting going on around them. He certainly was.

Her solemn gaze lifted from its seat on the floor to settle on him wearily, anticipating more questions that she had already given answers to and was surprised by the gentle expression adorning his face.

"Would you like some coffee? I have hot cocoa for your son."

A warm, grateful smile eased her features.

"Why, yes. Thank you." She took the cups and gently jostled Bruce.

"Sweetheart?"

The small child reluctantly turned his face from its sanctuary and peered up at Gordon.

What the sergeant saw in those eyes completely broke every idealistic belief that drove him into joining the force. The fear was expected but it was the understanding that tore at him.

The breaking of innocence. The realization that the crime in the Saturday morning cartoons was not harmless in reality. The change from knowing to _knowing_. It was aftermath that was left when crime, evil, touched your life.

It didn't matter to this kid if they caught this guy, Gordon realized. The knowledge of what he could have lost tonight would never go away. Even if the perpetrator was caught and sentenced for life, another would just rise up in his place.

Evil never die. Crime can never be eradicated. And that kind of understanding irrevocably changed you.

In spite of the luck that spared their lives, that life would never really be the same.

While Gordon pondered in his newly found melancholy, the little boy hesitantly sipped his cocoa watching him.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when the doors behind him flew open. An ashen-faced man in a black rain coat hurried over to them. "Madam!"

Martha set her coffee aside, let Bruce down and hugged the man, nearly crying in relief.

"Oh, Alfred! Thank goodness."

The butler hurriedly examined the two. "Are you both alright! I received a call from Master Wayne-"

"Yes, yes, we're all right. Thomas is giving his statement to the Commissioner right now."

Gordon had moved aside to give them some space when Mr. Wayne and Commissioner Loeb entered. Thomas greeted Alfred with a firm grip on the arm and kissed his wife and son. Loeb turned to address his officers.

"As soon as the registration on the gun found at the crime scene comes back, I want all available field officers on his tail. We need to get as far ahead of the media as possible and nab this guy. Also," the man glanced down at the open notebook in his hand. "keep an eye open for this Person of Interest: Caucasian male, late teens, about 5'6, messy red hair (Gordon stilled), scruffy clothing, possibly homeless, carries an instrument case on his back, and wears goggles." Loeb looked up to fix them all with an intimidating glare.

"Find him, but don't scare the damn kid off. He's a material witness and thus important to this case. And whatever you do, don't let this information leak, or else he'll just disappear. Willingly or not."

The officers nodded silently. If the media got a hold of the kid's description, they'd have a field day, singing his praises, calling him a hero. If the man who attacked the Waynes had friends in the gangs or mobs, the poor kid would be hunted down and made an example of.

"You're dismissed."

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(Present)

It was a rather ironic turn of events, considering the circumstances, Gordon mused as he scanned the park for a flash of red hair amongst the trees and sparse visitors. He was one of the least important people in Gotham's police force, but was also the only one who had the best chances of finding the key element to this case: Mutt.

Mutt, the boy's street name, was homeless boy that Gordon had befriended very early in his career. He had been taking his lunch break in the park after patrol, when he had heard music. Gordon had investigated to find a shabby, oddly-dressed redhead playing an even shabbier violin under the marble statue with the rearing stallion.

Normally, the police officers were obligated to shoo any squatters or loiterers during the day, when the civilian families used the park, but he had been intrigued by the young hobo. Gordon had ambled over and leaned against a nearby tree, allowing the boy to finish his piece (it was a simple tune, but quite nice all the same). Mutt had noticed him early on, and had obediently started packing his things when a slip of paper escaped from his tattered coat, fluttering to the ground. Gordon reached down to pick it up and had been startled to find a completed crossword in his hand.

"You're very good." He'd murmured, impressed. Mutt shifted nervously, rocking on his heels.

"…thanks." The kid's voice was soft and hoarse, unused.

He returned the slip to the boy, who bobbed his head lightly before trudging off with the case bumping against his back.

Gordon had returned the next day to find Mutt there again, and offered him his newspaper. It had eventually become something of an irregular tradition between them: Mutt never causing trouble, and Gordon doing most of the talking.

He'd found Mutt to be a surprisingly intelligent kid, who clearly had an excellent education at some point in his life if his crosswords and violin talent were any indication, but due to extenuating circumstances (which he refused to speak of) had ended up in the streets. It was such a waste, Gordon thought to himself on a fairly regular basis, and often told Mutt so, encouraging him to seek the shelters where he could get help and get out. But the boy would always get this strange look, shuffle uncomfortably, and eventually make an excuse to leave.

It constantly bothered him to see such a good kid out on the streets. Gotham was a harsh place to live in on a good day; there was no telling if Mutt was even alive. Gordon had been proud and slightly terrified when he had recognized the boy's description. It would be a pity (hell, it wouldn't be fair) if the heroic deed Mutt had performed was punished with evil. One less good person in Gotham; it was disheartening but that was reality. In Gotham and in life.

A raindrop hit the windshield, quickly followed by its brothers, sending the joggers outside scurrying for cover.

Gordon sighed, before turning back to the station.

Another day wasted.

But he would be back tomorrow, searching for the homeless hero.

As the rain squall fell across Gotham in heavy sheets, a single drop fell through the roof of a dilapidated building. It ran down through several floors and along a rusted metal pipe in a crusted, flaking ceiling, before falling onto the flesh of a sweaty forehead.

A bleary, crusted eye flickered open to reveal a vivid green iris.

He was alive.

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Does no one find this interesting? :( At all? Even if it's horrible, please say so! I don't have a beta, so it's hard to tell if the story's any good.


	5. Chapter 5

Extra thanks to Extraho and Platinum13 for reviewing! It makes me so happy that this story is okay. Hope you enjoy this longer chapter.**

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******

Found

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

The sensation of cool wetness roused him from the heavy shackles of unconsciousness. The liquid slowly warmed on his clammy skin and traced rivulets underneath his eyes and down the sides of his face to pool in his hair and the shells of his ears. It felt like sweat. He felt chilled. Had he been sweating a lot? Why was he lying on his back?

He struggled to wake the rest of his body.

Slowly but surely, his body responded. Feeling grudgingly returned to each of his deadened limbs. From what he could tell, he hadn't moved in at least a day or so; his joints were stiff and sore. The muscles were not much better. He took in a shuddering breath.

The air was musty and tinged with copper and sickness.

A shiver of unease ran through him like an ice cube down his shirt, forcing him to open his eyes.

A moldy, water-damaged ceiling came into focus along with a rusted single bulb lamp dangling from a mangled cord. The bulb flickered.

He clenched his eyes shut and forced himself up onto his elbows. Moth-eaten tarpcloth whined and strained against its metal framing beneath him. Looking down he found himself lying on an old army cot. Under closer inspection the cot was peppered with, what he had first thought to be decorative patterns, mysterious stains and splatters of varying shades of blood, sweat, vomit, and several other things he'd rather not think about.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he sucked in a harsh breath as a stabbing pain lanced through his stomach. Curling in on himself, gasping helplessly, he felt a tug in the skin of his right arm. Eyes watering, he glanced down and found an IV needle in the thin flesh of the forearm, the sleeve of his coat had been rolled up to his shoulder. Momentarily distracted from his pain, his gaze followed the line up to a clear bag of saline solution drooping from a make-shift hanger like a man on a noose.

Befuddlement quickly changed into anxiety as he finally began to survey his surroundings. Several other cots of identical dilapidation were lined up next to his own in a dim, grimy little room. Each of them were filled with bloody, tattooed men and severely beaten hookers, all of differing race and age.

A stone fell in stomach, which was no longer hurting due to the sudden rush of adrenaline in his system. He knew where he was now.

A backalley hospital.

He nervously felt around for the pockets of his coat. They had been turned inside out.

A shard of ice pierced his chest.

_My violin!_

Frantically, he searched the area around the cot and saw his battered case…open on the dirty grey tiles. It had obviously been rifled through, seeing as his beloved instrument lay face down in the patchy velvet lining, jutting out awkwardly, and the bow left on the ground like a dropped sword.

He practically fell out of the stained cot as he scrambled on his knees to assess the damage. The violin was graciously in one piece, but the A string had snapped during its violation, leaving him with only two strings. The bow had lost a couple horsehairs, but remained in decent shape. However, the little money that he had managed to scrounge was long gone. Nothing surprising there.

As he carefully placed his violin and bow back into their beds, he noticed the yellowing scraps of paper that littered the grimy floor. They were his crosswords. Quietly, he gathered them into his hands, meticulously flattening them out and folding them, before tucking them back into his pockets. His pencil stub was gone, but it didn't really matter at the moment. As he closed the rusted latches of his case a loud voice cut through the musty air, startling him.

"About time you woke up!"

He slowly raised his head to meet the gaze of a stout little woman in a blood splattered lab coat. Her jowls wobbled dangerously as she began her tirade.

"Any longer and we would've just sold you off for parts." She raised one of her thick eyebrows at him as thought expecting him to be grateful. Straightening up, her voice took on a business-like manner.

"So. Bed, blood transfusions, IV, Saline, antiseptics, stitches, and all that other stuff we wasted on your sorry ass." She counted off on her stubby, sausage-like fingers, before fixing him with one beady little eye. "Yah, got anything to pay with?"

He swallowed fearfully, his eyes flicking down at his case. The woman followed his gaze and cackled.

"Oh, please! I've already seen that piece of shit. Not even those antique aviator goggles around your neck are worth anything."

He glanced down at his neck in surprise, taking in the comforting weight on his neck. He hadn't noticed that they were still there. The cracked lens was now missing a piece. Her shrill voice slapped him back to the current situation.

"Well, yah got anything?"

"…" _No._

"What are yeh? A mute or a retard?" _Does it make a difference?_

She sighed in frustration when he remained silent.

"I bet your kidneys ain't even worth takin."

Before she could throw anything else at him, loud shouts could be heard from outside.

"Aw, Damnit!" She ran over to the door and leaned outside for a moment, leaving only her rump visible from inside. A second later she was barreling towards him and ripping the IV from his arm.

"_Move! _I've got a gang shooting, and I need some damn cots!" She yanked him up from the floor with surprising strength for a woman of her stature and shoved him towards the door at the other end of the room.

"You got lucky this time, so just get the hell out a the way!"

As he stumbled out into the street he saw her physically kick a hooker out of another cot, before the door closed on his back, shoving him out into an alley.

Indescribably thankful for his kidneys, he did not even pause to contemplate his unusual luck and set off for home at a quick trot, case strapped over his shoulder, and hand clamped over his now aching abdomen.

He would check the damage, later. Right now he needed to get as far away from here as possible.

/

"Sorry darlin'. Haven't seen him around lately. Tried the park?"

"Yeah. "

"Hmph. Well, the best I can give you is to ask Bootblack or Paintcan." A cloud of smoke billowed out through thick crimson lips, as she twiddled her cig between chipped, equally crimson talons.

"He hangs out with them in the east alleys sometimes. Maybe he just went for some sympathetic company. Anyway, see you around, Gordon."

"Thank you, Cupcake." He called after the voluptuous woman as she sauntered off. Cupcake was a blonde, middle-aged hooker who knew Gotham's streets and its residents like the back of her hand. She was more decent than most, but no angel either: Gordon had been forced to let Cupcake off with a warning in exchange for the info.

_Bootblack and Paintcan. _Two other homeless guys on Gordon's beat. They were members of a nomadic troup of hobos that wandered Gotham's slums, and rarely stayed in one area for long periods of time. It would probably just be another goose chase, but he had to find Mutt. Time was slipping through his fingers, along with the probability of getting to the boy before any of the unsavories did.

Gordon carded his fingers through his hair in frustration.

_Mutt, where are you?_

_/_

_**DO NOT CROSS **_

_**CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION**_

_**DO NOT CROSS**_

His vision blurred a bit as he stood across the street from Crime Alley.

It was completely blocked off with yellow tape and police vehicles. He couldn't go home, so he stumbled off.

It was around noon or so, his stomach had been empty for at least three days, and he needed to find shelter in order to recover from his wound (which, he suspected, had not been properly treated).

He wasn't sure just how long he'd been wandering around (disorientation kind of did that to you) when a voice called out to him.

"Mutt!"

He jolted a second or two later; his response delayed by exhaustion, hunger, and the now stabbing pain in his stomach.

His equilibrium out of order, Mutt swayed as he turned to face the owner of the voice.

/

It had taken several hours but Gordon had finally found them.

He stood in front of a small group of hobos in the sector that Cupcake had told him about. Gordon hadn't expected it to be easy, the homeless were fiercely protective of their own, but this was getting ridiculous. He had been here for almost half an hour trying to ask if anyone knew Mutt or his whereabouts and getting stonewalled.

"Aye don no yu, an yu don no mee. Yu don no oo yu are. Oo noes eny won? No won dos." Bootblack murmured in a rushed string of words. He was a toothless and severely paranoid black man who was apparently friends with Mutt. Paintcan, a stingy, beanie-wearing hobo covered in splotchy birthmarks, stared silently at Gordon out of intense, milky eyes. Half a dozen others in varying shades of shabby gazed at him in identical regard.

Gordon fought down an irritated sigh and tried again.

"Yes, yes, but .._Mutt_.is?"

"Mut?"

"Yes. _Mutt_." He reiterated. "Do you know _where_ he is? Have you _seen_ Mutt?"

"Aye no a mut. Seeen won."Bootblack warbled.

Gordon got the feeling that this wasn't going to go anywhere, but he had to keep trying. Steeling away any overt signs of anger or frustration, the officer squared his shoulders and tried _again._

"Good. _Where_?"

The two stared at Gordon silently, regarding him with deepest suspicion. He tried a different approach.

"I'm his _friend_. I need to make sure that he is _safe_." The only word that seemed to compute was-

"Friend? Mut iz by friend." Bootblack nodded vigorously. For the first time, Paintcan spoke up.

"Mutt's nice. Was here while ago." Gordon sputtered.

"What?"

Paintcan gave him a look that clearly said, _you deaf?_ Which was an impressive feat for a man in such an advanced stated of cataracts.

"Was here. Today."

"Where did he go?"

Bootblack answered him. "Ta see man bou a hors."

Gordon frowned in confusion.

_To see a man about a –_

"Horse!" He shouted in triumph. One of the other hobos answered, "Yes?", but Gordon was already off running to his car.

The park.

Mutt was at the park. Today! The one day he had decided to look elsewhere.

Go figure.

There was no way that Gordon was going to miss him this time.

/

Evening was looming, painting the sky in the same throw of hues that he would have stopped to admire had the pain in his side not become so debilitating. Considering how much the ground was bucking and rolling beneath him, it was a wonder he had made it all the way to the park.

Wheezing gasps tore their way from his chapped mouth as Mutt slumped across the hooves of the brass stallion. The cool marble and metal felt wonderful against his fevered skin, and numbed the raw, whitehot edges of his wound.

Mutt hadn't been able to look down at himself to assess the damage without the sidewalk leaping up to meet him, but he'd been able to deduce that what little treatment he had received had not helped him much at all. He probably had an infection festering now.

A frosty breezed whipped through the park, ripping away any leafy stragglers from the skeletons of the trees, making him shiver, chills racking his weakened body.

Lack of proper nourishment and unsanitary living conditions had wrecked his immune system, leaving Mutt in even poorer condition to fight off this impending sickness. He had no money. The few friends that he had were just as unfortunate as he was. There was no way he would be able to drag himself to Gotham's Central Hospital. He couldn't move period.

The temperature was quickly dropping, and the once soothing cool of the statue had become bone-chilling. Mutt could see his harsh gasps manifesting in smoky wisps as he felt his extremities start to numb.

He was going to die.

Mutt's moss green eyes fluttered, the lids growing insufferably heavy.

At least he had been able to see Boot and Paint again, two of the three people in this entire world who had ever been nice to him.

As the weight of the violin case on his back began to choke the air from his failing lungs, Mutt thought privately to himself that it would have been nice to see Sergeant Gordon too.

Gordon.

Maybe Mutt shouldn't have lain on the statue. Poor Gordon would have to see his frozen carcass scraped off of the brass and marble. And the last thing he wanted to do was inconvenience the nice man.

"…utt?"

Hobos aren't supposed to inconvenience people after all.

"Mutt!"

He felt the world shake violently. Earthquake?

Warm hands firmly gripped his shoulders just like that night in the alley, but Mutt had no energy or will to fight or flee this time.

He was turned over, and for a moment he thought he saw a dark shadow leaning over him, before the edges of his vision blurred and blackened.

* * *

Life is getting hectic again now that I'm starting college. Updates will probably be even fewer (not that they were often to begin with X/ ).

Please review, even if it's (constructive)criticism.

Thankyou.


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